The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

The man was dressed roughly, in a faded shirt, very dirty and stained corduroy trousers, and cow-hide boots. He had no hat and his lank hair hung dankly about his bloated, red face. His nose was huge and bulbous, and his whole appearance was that of a man of dissipated habits.

Presently – while they were still trying to revive the fellow – Jack came in from the barn. As soon as his eyes fell upon the man on the lounge, he gave a cry of surprise.

“Why that’s one of the fellows who was set to guard us!” he exclaimed.

Sam Hartley looked up quickly.

“It is, eh? One of the chaps who went to sleep and gave you a chance to use that knife?”

“Yes. What is he doing here? Where did you find him? What is the matter with him?”

Jack fairly poured out the questions. Sam Hartley smiled at his impatience.

“One at a time, lad,” he said, with a deliberation that was positively irritating to Jack, who was wild with curiosity. “Now here’s Mrs. Chillingworth, and I guess she’s come to tell us that the bed is ready. We’ll get this fellow into it, and then when we’ve all had some supper I’ll tell you just how I came to find him. I reckon he’s one of Bully Banjo’s horrible examples.”

“Horrible examples?” echoed Jack. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Sam Hartley slowly, as he helped Mr. Dacre lift the still senseless man, “that he’s been paying pretty dearly for his sleep.”

Led by Mrs. Chillingworth, holding the lamp high above her head, they bore him to a small room upstairs. But it was some time before they could do more than watch him anxiously and await the time for him to speak.

In the meantime, after supper, as he had promised, Sam Hartley told how he came to run across the unfortunate fellow.

“As you know,” he began, after he had lighted his pipe, and they all sat about in interested attitudes in the big, comfortable living room; “as you know, when I left here this afternoon, it was for a definite purpose – to discover if possible how Bully Banjo and his men managed to get inland from the sea without crossing any trails. Well, I found out that at the same time as I found this fellow.

“It was this way: I had an idea in my mind as to how those rascals were getting into the canyon. Well, I found out that soon enough. As I expected, they were using a tunnel made by the river under the range, between the canyon and the sea. It was the simplest thing in the world for them to land their Mongolians right on the beach and then march ’em through that hole. In some places I guess they must have had to wade up to their knees, though.”

“Oh, then you didn’t go through it?” inquired Jack.

“No indeed,” was the rejoinder. “I wasn’t going to take a chance like that. I just got close enough to see the big opening – mostly screened by brush it was – the tracks in the sand along the side of the river told me the rest. But all that isn’t telling you about that poor fellow upstairs.”

Sam Hartley paused here, looked very grave, and shoved the tobacco down in his pipe bowl. Then he resumed:

“We’ve all read of pirates and stringing up by the thumbs, and things like that, but I never thought I’d live to see the victim of such practices. But that – or something very like it – is what had been done to our red-faced friend. As I emerged from the vicinity of the tunnel I heard a groan a little way up the canyon. I followed the sound up and soon came to where they had strung that chap up in a tree by his wrists. There he was, dangling about in the hot sun, suspended by his two wrists and nothing else. His feet were a foot or more off the ground.”

His hearers uttered horrified exclamations. Then Jack asked:

“But how did they come to tie him there, and why?”

“Well, the ‘why’ part of that is soon answered,” said the Secret Service man. “It was as a punishment for letting you escape. As to why they chose just that place, I imagine it was because they had trailed you boys down the river bank. When they reached the tunnel and found no trace of you, they knew you must have got clear away, and so they proceeded to string up that chap as a horrible example.”

“But what about the Indian? He was equally guilty. Why didn’t they punish him, too?”

“Well, that I cannot answer. I guess, though, the Indian probably cleared out during the excitement following your escape. His race are pretty wise, as a rule, and he surmised there would be trouble in store for him if he stayed. I’m mighty glad I found that fellow, though, for other reasons than those of humanity.”

“What – for instance?” asked Mr. Dacre.

“Well, I think we may be able to get a lot of useful information out of him about the gang. Information that will help me to get them just where I want them. For, you see, when I do get ready to start in on them, I don’t want to run any chances of a slip up. I want to be able to bring my hand down on the whole shooting match and stamp them out for all time.”

When they retired that night the red-nosed man had so far recovered as to be able to give an account of himself. As Sam had guessed, it was Bully Banjo who had triced the unfortunate fellow up as a “lesson” for his carelessness. The man also confirmed Sam’s guess that the Indian had saved himself by running away. But he had not escaped scot-free, for before the Chinook managed to make his escape Simon Lake had ordered him tied up and several lashes administered. These had been laid on by Zeb Hunt, with a promise of more to come, but when the gang returned from the fruitless search after the boys it was found that the Indian had, in some manner best known to himself, slipped his bonds and made his way to freedom.

From the red-nosed man it was also learned that Bully Banjo intended to run the Chinamen through that day, and set sail the same night for the island where, as the rancher had suspected right along, deliveries of Chinamen were made. In answer to Jack’s questions it was explained that the Chinese were brought across the Pacific as far as Vancouver Island in an ostensible freight steamer. From this they were transferred at a lonely spot to another vessel, which brought them to the island. Here they were kept till opportunities presented themselves to get them through into the States.

No real apprehension was felt at the ranch concerning the rancher and Tom Dacre till about noon the next day, when they failed to put in an appearance. Even allowing for headwinds and other possible delays, this began to look serious.

It was about mid-afternoon that a man on horseback reached the ranch. He was a neighboring landholder, whose ranch bordered in some places on the coast of the Sound. His face was grave as he slipped from his horse in front of the ranch house, and he saw Sam Hartley and Mr. Dacre coming toward him with a good deal of relief.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to face the woman with the news I’ve got,” he said. “That there sloop of Chillingworth’s drifted ashore bottom up in my cove this morning.”

From behind the little group there came a piercing scream, and Sam Hartley turned just in time to catch Mrs. Chillingworth as she swooned.

“And there was no trace of her occupants?” asked Mr. Dacre, in a voice he strove to make steady in spite of the trembling of his lips.

The other shook his head.

“We had a tough blow last night,” he said, “and I guess that sloop went over before they could do a thing. My advice is to watch the beaches. Their bodies are likely to drift ashore sooner or later.”

CHAPTER XV.

“STEAMER, AHOY!”

“Well, Tom, all I can say is – we must keep on hoping for the best.”

It was Mr. Chillingworth who spoke, the morning after the casting away of the sloop.

He and Tom Dacre were standing against the lee rail of the schooner amidships, watching with gloomy faces the white spume as it sped by. Above them the canvas was bellied out, heeling the schooner smartly and putting her on her sailing lines. On the other hand, could be dimly seen the blue shores of the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. Bully Banjo’s schooner was making for the open Pacific, but what was her destination they had not the slightest idea.

The events of the night before seemed like a nightmare viewed in the crisp, sparkling, early daylight, with the white deck of a fast schooner under their feet. Somewhat to their surprise, Simon Lake had offered them no violence, and had even accommodated them with a berth in the cabin, turning out one of his own men for the purpose. If Mr. Chillingworth was as good a judge of human emotions as he deemed himself to be, it appeared to him that the Chinese runner was glad rather than otherwise at the way things had fallen out, and, so far at least, not disposed to offer them any active harm. At breakfast, which was just over, Simon Lake, who, with Zeb Hunt, had shared the meal with the castaways, had seemed particularly inclined to be amiable. One thing, though, was noticeable: he did not refer in any way to the occurrences of the night before, nor to the events which had preceded them. For all that appeared to the contrary, any listener to the conversation might have imagined that Tom Dacre and the rancher were honored guests of the sea ranger.

But, of course, all this show of friendliness had not for an instant deceived either of the castaways. Tom’s experience in Simon Lake’s camp had taught him just what the man was, and what he would dare to do. As for Mr. Chillingworth, he had long ago made up his mind that their present host was the most dangerous man on the Pacific Slope. Doubtless he was even now discussing a course of action with Zeb Hunt, down in the cabin, where both had been closeted since breakfast. Taking advantage of this, Tom and Mr. Chillingworth had slipped on deck to try to get an opportunity to talk the situation over.

But, not so very greatly to their surprise, this proved to be a hard thing to do. As soon as they stopped at any one spot and began to talk, some member of the crew – many of whom Tom recognized as having occupied the camp in the canyon – happened along on some errand or other, apparently accidental. Of course, there was little doubt that they had been told to overhear all they could and report it to their leader.

“Have you any idea where we are bound?” inquired Tom, not caring much whether a man who had just come up ostensibly to coil a rope heard him or not.

“Not the slightest,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “unless it can be to that island of Simon Lake’s – or rather of the syndicate engaged in this rascally business.”

Tom’s face fell.

“Once they get us there,” he said disconsolately, “we won’t stand much chance of getting away again till they wish it.”

“That is so,” agreed Mr. Chillingworth, in an equally gloomy tone; “yet what are we to do?”

He sank his voice.

“I have thought over a dozen plans of escape, but none of them will bear analysis. It looks as if we are absolutely in this rascal’s power.”

“Why not hail a passing vessel – provided one comes near enough?” suggested Tom. “Surely our signals would attract attention.”